


Quality of Mercy

by Typist_Simian



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cuckold Fetishism, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Gun play, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, crying while masturbating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 14:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typist_Simian/pseuds/Typist_Simian
Summary: A story about questionable consent in three parts with spoilers for Season 1 (Episodes 3, 8, &  10 respectively).  In part 1, Donnie Schenck struggles to reconcile traditional masculinity with suppressed masochistic desires. In parts 2 & 3, a drunken Jesse Custer teaches Schenk the virtues of submission & mercy.





	1. Chapter 1

Schenck's first semi-coherent thought forms on a freeway off-ramp, as if centrifugal force wrenches him back into being.

_Custer knows._

The sweat's drying, prickling his pallid skin. His good arm floats bloodless, feeling weirdly light, clenched fist anchoring it to the steering wheel. The broken one tingles too, just above the bicep. Feels like another, weaker man's body.

_Custer knows._

Knows what? Knows that Schenck beats Betsy? Or knows Schenck lacks the balls to do it when he's sober? It's gotten so she gets wet to the stink of bourbon, sliding the bottle closer, rubbing her bruised thighs together, biting her bottom lip at him across the dinner table. So bad he can't fuck her without his fifth of Jack -- not the way she needs it. Can't fuck sober, can't cum drunk. Might as well outsource it -- let Custer fuck her.

No. His dick twitches in protest. Semi-hard and terrified -- mind speeding to match the flicker of the white lane markings, coming at him fast -- too fast. 90 mph and his foot's still heavy on the gas.

He tongues the roof of his mouth and tastes copper where the Colt's barrel caught him. Shifting his hips against the seatbelt, cock hardening as his lips form an involuntary 'O.'

Fuck. Schenck adjusts his bulge, growling in confusion. 

His pulse is slowing but his brain's still tilted, rocking sideways, and the nausea's bubbling back up. He'd pull over for a drink if he could hold it down. Just the memory of that gun triggers his gag reflex.

That's the point of deep-throat, right? Feels good for him when Betsy's body spasms. And here he's got that same reflex deep inside his skull. The uvula: a button that, when hit right, milks a cock just like a cunt, like mouths were made for fucking.

He takes his good arm off the steering wheel to stroke the roughness of his throat. Lucky he's not a faggot, or else he might have made a habit of it: kneeling down in dirty truck-stop men's rooms.

He grunts in disgust but, weirdly, his cock stays hard. Better pull over then, calm his nerves with a quick stroke. The dull crackle of gravel reassures him: do it quick here on the shoulder, clean up, and drive on.

He spits on his good hand, then strokes his cock roughly. Tonight, he'll man up: breed Betsy like a bitch, maybe make a baby, then slap her around some.

_Custer knows._

Fuck that. Everybody fucking knows. They all see how Schenck hurts Betsy. 

His hand slows to a stop as he remembers what ma told him before the wedding: 'how you respect your woman shows how you respect yourself.' Fucking humiliating, fielding calls from CPS, switching doctor's in a small town, letting a stray punch hit your son, then watching him flinch from you at breakfast. 

Not that Betsy gives a fuck. She likes him mean and dirty, doing her dry in the wrong hole. If that's a measure of his own self-respect, it's no surprise his knees are stained with men's room piss.

_Custer knows._

Fuck Custer. Schenck struggles to shift focus back to his own erection. He spits again, slickening the shaft with his fist.

_Custer knows._

He's more than happy to exploit base instincts: this sick pull to degrade -- no, annihilate -- the self. He'd meet Betsy's needs easy without bourbon. Even Schenck's -- he'd punish him again like he deserves.

Schenck half-laughs, half-sobs, as his balls tighten and the shaft begins to pulse. It's fucked up where his mind goes at the point of no return: the metallic click of the cocked revolver and the snap of his arm in the bar and that keening sound he made. Seems so vivid till he realizes it's the same sound he's making now. 

Cum splatters his cupped palm. Fuck. He swallows a soft sob and blinks back the wetness in his eyes. He's not crying. It wouldn't make sense, crying and jacking off on the highway shoulder. 

He wipes his hand on the carseat's underside, then shifts the engine into gear.

As the car jerks forward, he sinks into the backrest. The white lane markings speed from a quick beat to a white-grey flicker. 80 mph and climbing.

_Custer knows._

Fuck Custer. Fuck him, fuck his church, and fuck this psychosexual self-analysis bullshit. Schenck's humble enough to acknowledge the unknown. He fears God and the Devil. And he knows in his gut: Custer doesn't fucking speak for God.

Vampiric thrall, hypnosis, mesmerism, or bewitchment -- if anyone's ever been guilty of it, it's Custer.

Problem is, Schenck doesn't want to be controlled like that. Seems too close to rape, and he's not a victim -- never been a victim. Whatever was done in the truck-stop restroom was done by him, not to him. 

Schenck's brain may be fucked but it's still well-fortified, buttressed by bourbon and distrust of others. If Betsy can't penetrate through with her fuck-me eyes, no way Custer can command him. No, Schenck won't fake like he's a victim. Betsy despises victims. That's why he gets the blanket go-ahead from her -- never rape, no matter how hard she screams and scratches. Never rape, they reassure each other.

Fuck. The Ford is hurtling forward. It's 4 tons doing 105 in a 65 zone. Schenck survived the gun but can he survive the ride home? (Does he want to?)

_Custer knows._

He knows better than Betsy -- knows Schenck owes a debt for what he did to her. She'd argue no, and yes -- give her retroactive 'yes', absolving him, reminding him that 'no' means 'yes' sometimes -- "Fuck them dickless bleeding-hearts, hon'. You know how I like it."

Fuck. Donnie's mind is fucking fucked. He's broken, bloodless, barely worth the breath it took for Custer to issue the command to drop the gun. A bullet to the brain would of been too good for him. He needs to suffer first, absolve himself of sin, approach Preacher man-to-man and make amends -- or shoot that fake-pious cocksucker in the face. 

Next time, no more ambiguities: no demon voices, no cop-outs, no post-near-death hard-ons. Whatever Schenck chooses will be his choice alone: kill Preacher or repent. Silence the truth with a gun or wrestle it out into the light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Season 1, Episode 8. Jesse Custer teaches Johnnie Schenck humility.

Schenck jacked off three times the night before the demolition. Even so, his mind kept veering back to Custer -- ugly, distracting thoughts, as his lazy hand trailed downward and then, again, just as his balls contracted. He'd thrust his shoulders off the bed, head back, neck exposed, with his good hand on the shaft and the cast between his teeth. Betsy would be angry if she woke: the virility he'd failed to muster up for her was being wasted. He scoops it up and licks it, twisting his nose -- tastes sick and bitter, but he can't risk alerting Betsy by reaching for the tissues or letting it get crusty. Shameful to get caught with his own filthy refuse in his mouth.

Three times he came, trying to clear his mind. And now, in the morning light, his brain's growing twisted again; thoughts swinging and flipping like a horse's tail before it bolts, bucking its rider off. 

There's too much noise out here: bulldozer growling, feet trudging, dry roots cracking, gravel grating against gravel. Above the church door, Schenck even hears the whine of the speaker. The preacher could weaponize that thing, were his voice truly evil: 'everyone stand down'; 'Schenck, get on your knees'; 'the rest of you: use his mouth'; 'pleasure them, Schenck, like you dreamed you pleasured me last night.'

Fuck. Where the fuck did Schenck's mind just go? He needs silence and certainty -- something tangible to grip -- a weapon or a shield capable of defeating Preacher, his nemesis. 

The colt in his hip holster no longer reassures him. Even the uniform he wears just takes him back to that first night.

"You'll hear a noise," Custer had said, "a high-pitched bunny-in-a-bear-trap noise."

No, no he won't. Not again. No more noise. He'll blow his eardrums out before he bows again to Custer's voice. That's it, God damn it: he'll blow his eardrums out.

Fast forward two hours and the tinnitus rings like church bells. Standing over Custer's body, Schenck's own fresh blood cools in the inert shells of cartilage that had been his ears. 

It's everything he'd wanted; he should rightly be elated. But the lack of struggle has him feeling shifty. Preacher seemed unphased by, even welcoming of, death. And Donnie, in turn, wanted more hand-to-hand violence: skin-on-skin, man-on-man, body-against-body.

He squats to toss an arm aside so he can check the rise and fall of Custer's breath: no movement. Bending closer, bracing the floor, lowering his head, he smells the sweet, smoky stink of bourbon and feels a humid breeze against his cheek.

Preacher lives. His relief manifests as a hard-on. Or maybe it's proximity to someone who's not his wife, quickening his pulse, making his pants chafe. Shit doesn't make sense. All he knows is Custer's body reeks of sour, alcoholic sweat and nicotine. He's got a weird impulse to wash the other man before Quincannon's men arrive.

Alright, whatever -- he grips Custer beneath the arms and hoists, dragging him backward. The limp body reanimates: boots scrabbling on the floorboards.

"Bathroom," Schenck lets go and nods toward the bathroom door.

Custer's lips move. His eyes narrow with hate (or apathy.)

"Can't hear," Schenck smiles broadly.

Custer shrugs, then struggles up. He follows behind Schenck.

The bathroom stinks: congealed blood, sulfur, and antiseptic. Whatever was unleashed here sure as fuck wasn't holy.

Custer sways on his feet, pale and stone-faced. He belches -- slack-mouthed; apathetic; bored by loaded pistols, concussions, death smells, everything.

"Wanna get you sobered up," Schenck leads him to the sink.

The cracked floor tiles slope downward to a drain in the corner. Metallic blood stink and methane overwhelm the mildew; someone must of cleaned a carcass out.

Schenck grimaces, then goes to crack a window. Fuck. This cocksucker just shot a man's dick off. Don't turn your back. Even black-out drunk, he's deadly.

Schenck looks over just as Custer's knees give out. He slides down the wall, head tipped, half-smiling, dark eyes narrowed. 

_Custer knows._

His lips move; there's a challenge behind his smirk. Schenck can't hear over the ringing -- can't understand Custer. An insult or a threat or a sexual proposition all trigger the same fucking facial muscles. 

Good thing Schenck's pants are so heavy. His cock's hardening again. Twisting out of his arm sling, stripping his jacket off, he takes a quick glance down: yeah, still barely visible (not that he's not well-endowed.)

He folds the ornate jacket, placing it with the hat, beside the doorframe, in the corner furthest from the drain. Then he sheds his wife-beater, balling it up under the sink faucet's rust-flecked stream. 

He sponges Custer's scalp with the dripping shirt. White cotton comes back pink where Schenck pistol-whipped him. The scents of wet, greasy hair and warm, free-flowing blood mingle with the fading slaughter-house odor. Schenck squats closer, flushing, faking interest in the head wound. 

Custer's lips move. He rises up, unsteady on his feet. He's got Schenck's revolver -- must have snuck it from the holster just now while Schenck played Florence Nightingale.

He's waiting, expecting a reaction. Meanwhile, all Schenck can think is fuck the Colt looks good in Preacher's hands. He leans in; stomach tightening, heart quickening, sweat cooling, lips forming an 'O' around the gun barrel. Raising his eyes to Preacher, he opens his jaw wide enough to show his tongue, tip running up and down the underside.

Preacher's eyelids droop a little. He sways, unsmiling but with a faint arch to his left eyebrow; he's curious. His chin tips up.

Tacit consent. Donnie reaches for Preacher's fly. His hands shake. Through damp denim and cotton, he finds something growing. It's long and reeks of sweat. Feels heavy in his palm. He draws the foreskin back, then watches, fascinated. The glans turn a muted plum as the shaft stiffens. So fucking filthy, Donnie's whole body thrums with need. He leans in, then stops.

"I've never done it before."

Preacher laughs open-mouthed as his eyes brighten, drunken gaze locking with Donnie's. He runs a rough thumb across Donnie's lower lip, then forces it past the teeth. 

"You'll learn," he mouths simply.

Donnie swallows back a moan.

Preacher laughs again. His lips move as he withdraws his thumb, pulling Donnie's skull closer, pressing his hips forward. 

"Donnie," he mouths, "kiss it."

Again, Donnie's throats vibrates. The taste is blunt and salty with a peppery sweat smell. He hums as he takes more hard flesh down his throat, gagging and shivering, working his tongue like Betsy, tickling the sweet spot beneath the glans. 

Preacher signals his approval with a series of rough hip-thrusts. Donnie's jaw aches and his stomach twists. Drool drips from his mouth and dick slit -- from both ends. He's throbbing, rock hard through the shame and discomfort.

Then Preacher pulls his head back, frowning down at him.

"Can't cum," Preacher mouths. It figures; he's wasted.

Donnie rubs his throat, then wipes a broad forearm across his mouth. There's a dull, sweet ache where Preacher kept stabbing; makes him feel filthy but useful, like a whore.

"Jack off," Preacher says, wriggling his fist in case Donnie doesn't understand.

No. Donnie's shoulders flex and his eyes widen. He makes a stiff, emphatic head shake: fuck no.

It's not even about pride, although that plays a part. Cumming could rip him back into reality. He's had enough post-orgasmic crises with Betsy to know that today's mental fallout will be brutal. He needs to stay hard because, as shameful as this is, it's safer than becoming suddenly sober.

Preacher shakes his fist again in the jack-off motion. It's fucked how fucking badly Donnie wants to please the bastard. He growls, breaking eye-contact.

"Alright," Preacher mouths. He gestures 'stand' with a slight upward chin tilt. Then, once Donnie's up, he grabs his shoulders, turning him, then yanking his body backward. A stiff cock grinds Donnie's ass. Humid breath and sharp teeth tease his bloodied, busted ear.

"Jack off."

The voice rings out like a command hallucination.

He slides a hand down roughly, beneath the belt buckle, grabbing his own cock just as the voice starts again.

"Respect your wife. Feel pleasure when I touch your ass. Relax. Breath slow. Reveal yourself to me."

He feels Preacher's lips moving against his ear. It's too much. His brain's like an overly dilated orifice. He needs liquor or pain pills to lubricate the intrusion. 

"Stop crying."

Donnie hiccups, blinking back the wetness. His hand's quickening on his dick as Preacher kneads his ass. A bizarre calm is settling, burying the rage and shame. 

"I'm doing this for you," Preacher slurs in Donnie's ear. His voice lacks authority. "God gave me this gift to help others find his grace. You're not just a thug, Donnie. You want to humble yourself but you can't without God's word."

Donnie growls and shakes his head, as if Preacher's lips were a mosquito. Still, his good hand works his dick, breath quickening.

"Slow down," the commanding voice returns, "Tell me how it feels."

"Confusing. Like you tossed a blanket on a camp fire." Donnie has a sense he was crying a minute back.

"No -- how good -- tell me how good it feels."

"So good." Donnie exhales. Even through the layers of heavy wool and cotton, he can feel Preacher's erection. "Like you're already inside me, fucking me." Beneath the calm, his own words terrify him.

_Relax. Feel pleasure when I touch your ass._

"Going to let me bust another cherry?" Preacher laughs in his ear. "Said you never even sucked cock, Donnie."

"Only yours," Donnie whispers.

"Bullshit."

It's not bullshit. Then again, Donnie'd rather be seen as a faggot than feed Preacher's ego. Thank fuck at least some thoughts can go unspoken, like how good it'd feel to take Preacher raw, letting himself be claimed by that cock from the inside. 

Shit -- Donnie's hips stutter. His chest quakes on each inhale.

"Don't cum unless I say so," Preacher commands him.

"Never cum," Donnie nods -- never without Preacher. Serene pleasure radiates from His rough, clumsy fingers. They knead Donnie's clothed ass and thighs, threatening to bruise the firm muscles.

"You gonna beg me?" Preacher slurs loudly in his ear. "Beg to cum," his words waver. There's no command, just words.

Donnie's cock is slickening, weeping with arousal. "Don't wanna cum." His voice cracks: "Order me to stop."

Behind him, Preacher's body freezes. There's no sound but the bells ringing where Donnie's blasted eardrums used to be.

Then the voice is back, echoing between his ears: "No. Reveal yourself to me. Beg me to let you cum."

It's too much. Donnie's brain goes blank just as his lips start moving. "Please, Jesse, let me cum." He's on the verge of laughing, speaking through a clenched rictus, breathing in sharp spurts. "I'll respect Betsy; be your good, God-fearing bitch. Don't wanna cum but you best let me cum, please, Jesse. Punish me. Make me cum in my hand, then make me eat it; or tell me pain is pleasure and dry-fuck me bloody in the ass 'till we both shoot; or say 'cum' as I tongue-fuck Betsy, tasting your seed inside her; or choke me braindead--"

"No more," Preacher commands. 

Schenck's hand stops. Custer steps back abruptly, breaking contact with his ass. He looks sidelong at Custer's face: slack, bloodless, and glistening with nausea -- he's dead drunk. 

Odds are he'll forget this come morning. Just a pity Schenck's not in a blackout too.

"Quincannon's men are coming." He speaks gently to Custer.

Custer moves his lips, face twisted in disgust or resignation -- impossible to tell if he's speaking on the church or on Schenck's sick sexual desires. (Church probably. Schenck understands now: he's a side-plot.)

_Relax._

He re-dons his jacket over his bare torso, then slaps his stiff hat back on and fixes his arm sling. Coarse wool chafes his lower spine, just above his sensitized asscheeks. He holsters his revolver, then moves to leave.

Fuck; Custer blocks the door. His large eyes are heavy-lidded, dulled with apathy and liquor. There's no hatred there -- the cruelty just stems from boredom. 

"Cum," he mouths at Schenck with a weird, owlish expression. It's a command.

Schenck cups his ear, then flashes a brave grin. "Fuck you, Custer, and your voice." He pushes past him roughly. 

Custer lurches after Schenck, through the vestibule. He's going to wrench Schenck's head back, grab his ear, and force another command in it.

Schenck draws his revolver. "Hell no. Command me again and I'll ensure you burn for it -- you and your daddy's church."

Custer laughs, unsmiling. He makes a fist and tongues his inner cheek, pantomiming a blowjob. 'Thank you,' he mouths, 'owe you one.' Then he raises his hands up, backing away, as if Schenck were an angry ex-girlfriend.

That night, when Schenck attempts to calm himself manually, he realizes the full extent of the damage: no matter how hard he strokes or how loud he curses, he can't give himself release. He satisfies himself instead punching holes in the kitchen drywall with his bare fist and plaster cast.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Season 1, Episode 10. Jessie Custer teaches Donnie Schenck forgiveness.

Come Saturday, Schenck's mind is shot. The sunlight flows in, hazy, spilling across the bloody rug -- nobody here but him, Quinncannon, and the body bags.

"The God of Meat," Quinncannon nods, resuming an unfinished thought. 

"What?"

"The God of Meat!" He scowls at Schenck. "Damn it, boy! I said: 'the God of Meat!" 

Schenck tries to recall the lapsed conversation. His concentration's fucked worse than his hearing. "The God of Meat? That's how you beat Custer?"

"It's not about beating anyone." Odin leans back, smiling: "It's about serving God. To best Jesse was just an ends to that means."

"But you said there was a crisis of faith -- a time when you couldn't perform -- do business, I mean," Schenck makes a quick correction, flushing. "Faith impacted your professional performance."

"There was a time I felt some confusion as to God's plan," Odin nods. "Were it the fairytale God that Jesse preaches, I'd be ill-equipped to serve it." He pats his chest: "Too brutal and intelligent -- an atheist by nature -- had to look inside myself. That's where I found God." He tilts his head, stroking the chair armrest. "What did Jesse say to you?"

Schenck's face burns. He hates talking about Custer. Last night in the shower, he fucked himself again using the scrub brush's long handle. Dry prostate orgasms are the closest he can get to cumming. Even then, he's got to remember the look and smell of Preacher's cock. It's sick.

"He told me to respect my wife."

Odin laughs.

"Betsy..." Schenck scans the carpet, trying to find words. "Betsy doesn't like it respectful."

"What woman does?" Odin's smile is filthy. "They're made of meat, just like the rest of us. Odds are, he wants to tenderize your woman, and she wants tenderizing. What preacher's done with his command is castrate the competition."

As Schenck watches Odin's mouth, he squeezes his fist, digging dark pink crescents into his wet palm. Betsy would look so good, he knows, with her long legs up, straining against preacher's thrusts. His mind's gone there before too many times.

But how hasn't this fantasy been removed? After all, hasn't he lost his willingness to drunkenly beat and sodomize his wife? How can he respect her while getting hard imagining her whoring with Preacher, his nemesis? 

Swap Betsy's ass out for his own and his cock stays hard but all love for life and for himself evaporates. The bathroom mirror is enough to make him tense with rage -- just a glimpse of the cast or a memory of where his mouth has been. His body's gone unused since the church standoff, it's true, but Preacher still maintains the rights to it.

And all Schenck can do is wait (or, worse yet, fuck himself, imagining how Betsy's sex would taste on Preacher's cock.)

"I respect her needs," he says aloud, then blinks confusedly. 

Odin laughs. His lips move but Schenck's mind is elsewhere. He's thinking on Betsy's Halloween costume.

At dinner that night, the plan solidifies.

"Preacher's moping around the back allies like a stray," Betsy smiles. She places a glass of bourbon (neat) beside Donnie's dinner plate.

He willfully ignores the glass. "You gonna fuck him like you planned on with that faggot in accounting?"

Her eyes sparkle. She purses her lips prettily. "I might."

"You shake that ass for him, I'll whup it black," he growls.

"Last seen two blocks East, answering to 'Preacher' -- feral mostly but he might be coaxed inside with a bowl of whiskey or a skritch behind the ear."

"Or an eight ball of coke," Schenck fights the urge to grin. "Best call Darryl, see if he's still selling, then throw on that old Halloween costume."

"You wouldn't be mad?" Betsy quirks an eyebrow. She keeps her lashes lowered, stirring swirls of gravy and mash with her fork.

"Furious," Schenck assures her. He watches her shift, rubbing those long legs together. "I mean, I could just gift you to him, all trussed up like a whore -- make you give him a good time, then whup you for it after."

Her eyes widen in mock indignation: "You wouldn't."

"Watch me," he smirks, snatching his car keys off the table. "Going to pick up some dry goods to get the party started, then swing back so you can use the car. Best be dressed like sex on legs, bitch. You're going to have to use your pretty ass to lure that cocksucker."

It only takes 40 minutes for Schenck to cop an eight ball and another 20 to swing back. An hour and 10 later, Betsy bursts in through the back patio entrance. The red glittery pumps accentuate her leg muscles as she staggers, baby-deer-like, arm-and-arm with Preacher. They're passing a quart of gin back and forth between them, whispering and tittering like children. Schenck crawls out from behind the couch when the bedroom door slams, gripping his revolver.

In the hallway, he waits, listening for Betsy's throaty moans; they're too loud, theatrically loud. He softly turns the handle, peering through the crack. Preacher's mounted her from behind, fingers tangled in her hair for leverage. His ass moves to a quick, animalistic rhythm, breeding Schenck's beloved wife with so little finesse, brings to mind a farmhand rutting livestock.

Disgusting. Schenck multitasks one-handed, fumbling: adjusting his stiff cock, gripping the loaded Colt, and thrusting the door open. 

Preacher spins around on him as Betsy feigns surprise, draping herself in a blanket.

"What the fuck is this?" Donnie bellows. 

Betsy rushes forward, breasts bouncing, half-nude. She grabs his ear: "One hour." Then she pushes past him roughly.

"Gimme two--" his response is punctuated by a door slam. She's retreated, as per plan, back into the living room with the gin and most of the cocaine.

Donnie cocks the gun. From this point on, the drama's improvised. "I ought to kill you now," he sneers.

Preacher moves his lips with a look somewhere between divine sight and constipation. (He's using his command voice.)

"Can't hear," Donnie laughs, cupping his busted ear. "Damn well told you last time too, fucking cocksucker."

"In the truck stop restroom?" Preacher mouths at him.

"No, asshole, the church bathroom." Donnie waves his gun. 

Preacher's lips move as he frowns. Donnie recognizes the hum and percussive 'b' of the word 'remember.' "Slow the fuck down talking or speak up," he growls.

There's something wrong: Preacher hasn't covered up his cock. It glistens, fat and slick from his fuck session with Betsy -- no condom. Was he planning to finish inside her? Donnie fights to keep his eyes off it. He needs to read Preacher's lips to escalate the conflict, build up enough rage to get his trigger finger working. But the anger's bleeding out instead, thanks to the confusion. (Cocksucker mumbles like it's intentional.)

"Fucking speak up," Donnie steps forward. Preacher points to him, cups his own ear, and then pats the mattress beside him.

Donnie sits shakily, clutching the revolver, trying to ignore the way his stiff dick lurches at the stink of alcoholic sweat and cigarettes. He holds the gun to Custer's skull: "If you try and command me, I'll shoot you before you can finish a sentence."

Preacher leans close so that his hot breath tickles Donnie's ear: "You picked a real bad time to come in -- seeing Betsy like that. Must be wondering why a man of God would make love to the wife of a parishioner. Honestly, I don't fault you for wanting to kill me."

Schenck shudders. "It's not for that. It's for last time. I'm doing what I should of done already." He hooks his good arm around Preacher's shoulders so that the Colt is stabbing just beneath Preacher's jaw.

Preacher shifts his hand on the bed to maintain balance. His splayed thumb jabs Donnie's ass. Donnie moans faintly.

"You alright?" Preacher's lips brush his earlobe. "Looks like you're in pain or..." His eyes trail downward, settling on Donnie's crotch. "What happened last time, Donnie?" His voice is low and gentle.

"You made me do shit." Donnie swallows hard. His throat is dry.

Preacher chuckles softly: "Donnie, if anyone 'made' you do anything, it was God."

"God made me suck your cock?"

"I ordered you to suck my cock?" Preacher straightens up, blinking with what seems to be concern.

Donnie shakes his head, flushing darker. "Naw, I just -- we -- it wasn't a command that time."

Preacher laughs warmly, smiling across at Donnie: "Well, good. God loves all his children, gay and straight. I'm not the kind of man who'll play like it's rape, just because I don't remember doing something." He slides his hand, palm-up, to cup Donnie's ass. "I mean, don't get me wrong: my preference is women but a hole's a hole. Also, that was some quality cocaine you bought me." He reaches to untangle Donnie's fingers from the revolver, placing it on the far edge of the mattress.

"Fuck you," Donnie gasps. His body is quaking.

Preacher slides his hand down Donnie's spine, beneath the belt, hooking his index finger to tease Donnie's sensitized asshole.

"Feels good when I touch your ass, right?" He speaks with a smile. "God wants you to submit but it's still your choice. Say stop and I'll stop."

Donnie's throat buzzes. He's whimpering, arching his back and raising his ass up; letting his head tip forward; and pressing his flushed face against Preacher's black shirt collar.

Preacher leans back on the bed, taking Donnie with him. They lie horizontal with Donnie on his side, curled around Preacher, convulsing like a puppet with each cruel twitch of the fingers in his ass.

"Nice and tight, just like your wife." Preacher nods to his own cock: "Get it slick with your mouth before you climb on top."

Donnie squirms awkwardly to lick Preacher's dick. He can smell Betsy's fragrance, mingling with Preacher's stink. He keens and Preacher groans as his throat buzzes.

"Bunny man. So meek, you wouldn't hurt a lamb. Gives me joy, seeing you humbled, pleasuring others, sharing God's love with your fellow brethren. You'll kneel now for other men as well, won't you? Cassidy'd love you -- so sweet, he'd eat you up." Preacher groans, stabbing his hips upward. 

Donnie gags but keeps his jaw wrenched open and his nose buried in Preacher's pubic beard. His balls ache for release; instead, he fondles preacher's, kneading them with a quick but gentle urgency.

"Jesus, darling, you've been practicing? I'm going to shoot before you get a chance ride that thing."

Donnie draws his head back. His face is wet from gagging: glistening with snot and sweat and tears. He can't bring himself to look Preacher in the face as he strips his lower body of clothing.

Straddling Preacher's hips, guiding the slick cock, he pants open-mouthed, wide-eyed, trembling. 

Preacher thrusts upward impatiently. "Bunny, bounce." His lips explode with each percussive 'b.'

Donnie braces himself with the unbroken arm, gripping the headboard, lowering his ass, bearing down on Preacher's cock.

It's big -- too big -- but it fills him perfectly; hurts deeper and better than the scrub-brush handle.

As they begin to move together, Preacher lifts his own upper body off the bed. He reaches around Donnie's deltoid, clutches the back of his skull, and draws him down low enough so as to bite his ear.

"So fucking good," Preacher's voice trembles exertion, "You're even better than my Tulip now -- there're things I can't do with a woman I respect. It's as if God sent you to satisfy these needs. I truly believe that: that God gifted you to me. You yield so fucking easily." 

Donnie moves mechanically, struggling to keep his mind vacant of everything but the pleasure in his ass. To ask Preacher to shut up would just make him obstinate, prolonging the monologue. Donnie needs to find the silence inside himself.

"Your violence made me violent," Preacher continues, "and I missed that dance so bad before you chose to waltz with me. Just physical at first, yeah, but the mental violence was what I came back to when I jacked off, because you can't cum without my say so, and you fucking love this thanks to me, don't you?"

"Just don't," Donnie gasps, "don't make me cum."

"But you do want to make it good for me, don't you?" Preacher's voice buzzes softly, like a well-insulated engine. "Earn my cum? Prove your worth?"

Donnie grinds his hips, impaling himself deeper, stabbing his own prostate over and over. He's orgasming already in unending waves, climaxing without cumming, like a woman.

"You want me to cum," the voice echoes through him. "And, however hard I cum, you cum harder by tenfold."

"Fuck," Donnie sobs. He humps his ass faster, muscles flexing, sheaved in sweat, milking the shaft roughly. "Just shoot, shoot -- fuck -- please, shoot -- fucking fill me."

His existence is narrowing around a single goal, converging at the apex of Preacher's satisfaction. All that weight-lifting and boxing culminates in this; his body's a masturbation aid.

Preacher laughs beneath him. "Holy hell, God is good." He twists Donnie's nipple roughly and bites the soft skin behind his jaw. "Might be here awhile though. I'm pretty slow to-- fuck!" He interrupts himself. "God damn, Donnie!"

As the rhythm grows more erratic, Donnie's mouth falls open. He growls and keens until Preacher seals their lips together, swallowing the pained animal noises, clawing Donnie's upper back as both cocks pulse in unison, cum erupting inside and out, slicking their flushed bodies. The cock in Donnie's ass deflates easily post-climax but his own erection keeps twitching between their stomachs, stiff and sensitized. 

"Treasure," Preacher strokes his hair, kissing along his jawline. "Sweet as honey, meek as milk. I could get used to you." He uncurls Donnie's fingers from around the headboard, drawing Donnie's face toward him, kissing his frozen mouth.

Fuck. Reality seeps in as the pleasure ebbs, forcing Schenck back into being. It begins harmlessly enough as a dull chest ache; then he tastes gin and tobacco on Custer's lips and realizes he's still letting the cocksucker kiss him. Nausea sets in next, coupled with increased pulse rate and muscle stiffness. Then memory comes back so that Schenck can recall the brutal, self-destroying ecstasy of his orgasm.

Custer pulls back, smiling: "Was it good for you?"

Schenck emits a sharp laugh. His eyes focus in on the revolver. He lunges across Custer's torso, snatching it up, stabbing Custer's left breast with the barrel.

"Put down the gun," Custer commands.

Schenck does as instructed. "I'm going to kill you." He flashes a crazed, tremulous grin. His eyes sparkle, wet with hate. "Maybe not this time or next time but sometime, I'll kill you. You deserve to die for what you made me do."

"Made you do?" Custer laughs. "You used your fucking wife as bait, Donnie. I didn't come here for you. I came here to hide out, stave off the shakes with some liquor, and maybe, maybe fuck Betsy."

He leans to cut a line on the bedside table. Then, once he snorts it, he turns back, wiping his wrist across his nose. "You were damn good though -- tonight, I mean." His eyes narrow, "You practice with someone?"

Schenck dabs his ass and inner thighs with a wad of Kleenex, grimacing, hunching so his back is to Custer.

"Join me in the shower," Custer speaks warmly but firmly. He's not commanding Schenck -- there's no magic. He's just explaining what's supposed to happen next. "Betsy's passed out by now -- sure as shit was drunk enough. I need you to wash my back."

Schenck scans the floor for his blue jeans.

"You stink like my dick," Custer perseveres, "If you're worried I'll just fuck you filthy again in the shower, go first and I'll wait. I'll even let you lock the door." He stretches out at arm to caress Schenck's thigh, then startles when Schenck responds with a fist drawn back.

"Easy there. Don't play like you won't be back for this!" He speaks loudly for Schenck's benefit, wriggling his flaccid cock, laughing even as his smile falters.

Schenck struggles to thread his belt buckle. His hands shake. He keeps his eyes stubbornly downcast.

Custer says something else -- something about God and gratitude.

"Don't fucking tell me to be thankful," Schenck scowls. 

He freezes when Custer approaches from behind.

"Not you, asshole," Custer smiles, embracing Schenck one-armed with the other hand thrust low to molest his ass. "I said: I'm thankful for you. All good stories got a strong, cocksure antagonist and a slut who tries to win the hero's heart. You're two indispensable side characters in one -- just pray to Jesus you don't get killed off too fast..."

Betsy's voice punctuates Preacher's monologue, cutting through the tinnitus: "Donnie, duck!" 

Schenck wrenches his shoulder forward, twisting free of Custer. 

"Donnie, get the fuck down!" Custer shouts.

The bedroom door slams open. Fuck. She's got the rifle cocked. 

"Baby, don't shoot," Donnie steps instinctively sideways, shielding Preacher from his wife.

Custer pushes past him. With a smirk, he fixes his bright, owlish eyes on Betsy: "Freeze!"

She does.

Schenck looks rapidly between the two of them. Betsy teeters like a mannequin in her glittery red platform Mary Janes. Her rifle barely wavers, pointing straight at Custer's exposed dick.

Schenck draws closer and is reassured to catch the rise and fall of her firm breasts. She's living, just immobilized. Thank fuck the command didn't cause respiratory failure -- he'd have to kill himself then too.

For a minute, the only noise Schenck hears is ringing. Then the low hum of his own voice cuts in: "Betsy, baby, I'm so sorry," he's faking a sad smile. "It's my fault. I should have shot him but I was angry, and his lips looked good around the barrel of my gun -- even better with his mouth on me, and then his ass -- not half as tight as yours but damn, he must have learned some tricks from Cassidy." Schenck chuckles ruefully, shaking his head.

Behind him, Preacher coughs into his fist to hide a smirk. "Unfreeze," he commands Betsy. 

"Donnie baby." Her scowl melts into a smile. She moistens her lips and shifts her stance, lowering the rifle, "Don't you know me better? Why wouldn't you let me stay and watch?"

Donnie unthreads his belt and doubles it in one swift motion, slapping it against his thigh. "After you fucked this faggot?" Behind him, Custer snickers. "Bitch, you're lucky I'm still willing to whup your ass."

He smiles, reassured when her eyes mirror his, crinkling with unspoken warmth and understanding. 

"I'll take a shower," Custer speaks aloud to nobody.

"Yeah, wash the dick stink off your face," Betsy sneers.

Custer laughs again, creasing his nose. As he passes, a stray hand brushes Schenck's ass. "Forgive me," Preacher's voice reverberates, reordering Donnie's thoughts.

"Thank you," Donnie beams at him. 

It's a blessing, he realizes, being able to forgive a hurt that runs so deep. Some men let their lives constrict around a knot of hatred, risking everything to obtain justice (for what?) Just two words -- 'forgive me' -- and Donnie gets the gift of letting go.

His eyes burn with joy, even as his brow creases; he's struggling to adjust to the massive weight of his own newfound happiness. 

It's too perfect. Preacher understands Donnie too perfectly; he respects the perverse need to be controlled, to be ground down underfoot until Donnie rises up with enough cunning and courage to satisfy his wife. The pain and shame were necessary to experience God's love -- Preacher's love. His mercy is boundless.


End file.
